Jass likes her dry food and not wet foreign muck (Who gets the Alf Garnett reference). She took a small taste and decided to not eat that night. 

I don't blame her really. 

Brand name Cachet. Mousse with lamb, spinach and feta. It sounds ghastly.

It's not really funny, but a bit amusing. It has just been added to our national sound archive. 

In my former blog, I think about three times I wrote an April Fools joke post.

The first was a bit cruel, as people believed it. I had fallen on hard times and will have to move out of The Highrise into a shabby one bedroom flat. I remember being hopeful that there might be an internet plug at my new shabby flat.

The sympathy comments flooded in but no one seemed concerned about what would happen to Ray.  

Now I forget the order between these two. This one, Melbourne's Shrine of Remembrance is a stunning war memorial. But it is on a purpose built mound, with steep sides.  I reported that the beautiful grassed area around the shrine would be flattened out and paved as parking for the convenience of very aged veterans who wanted to visit the shrine. Commenters were generally horrified, but some were sympathetic towards making it easier for veterans to visit the shrine. 

I think my best one was about the Maltby Bypass, which is a sign you see along the motorway between Melbourne and Geelong. Obviously the bypass avoided the town of Maltby, about which I described the lovely town in some detail, and to enforce the point of it being an April Fool's joke, I concluded with, "For some reason, the town has the highest rate of incest recorded in Australia". 

In spite of that, still people fell for it. There isn't a town called Maltby. Maltby was a road engineer and part of the road, a bypass, is named after him.

 Yesterday morning up and down from the computer chair, doing bits, back to blog reading and commenting, rinse and repeat. I had ordered medications via the app to collect from the chemist, so by about midday I caught a tram to Prahran, bought a cup of coffee and sat in Prahran Square eating the sandwich I'd bought from and drinking my coffee. 

I picked up a packet psyllium husks at the chemist used to sprinkle on my breakfast cereal, my medications and I disposed of a gazillion medication blister packs into the recycling bin.

Damn, I just missed a tram. 11 minutes until the next one but there is the 604 bus approaching that will get me to short walk or a one stop tram trip in St Kilda Road. 

I left the bus at the stop before home but as I approached the building site I can view from my home, concrete for a footpath crossover had just been poured. I was hot and bothered, and weary and I had no intention of crossing five lanes of traffic, two bike lanes, and two tram lines, walk further then do the same again. I pulled my cap lower over my eyes, shortened my steps, slumped my body and head down and started heavy breathing, and began my slumped walk along the bike lane. 

Verboten! I cannot do this. "I am exhausted and I simply can't walk across the road and back again", I pleaded to the road monitor, slumping further forward and grabbing hold of a pole. She patiently escorted me along the bike lane with my small old man steps and opened a barrier at the end. I continued my pretence until I was home in case she was watching. Yes, it was a pretence, but I was exhausted and feeling extremely hot and bothered. 

After recovering I cleaned the balcony aside from the glass, which is now beyond me, and then rested.

Not long after the 6pm tv news began, I head a faint knock at the door, which I wish I hadn't heard. It was my neighbour's daughter who had locked herself out of the apartment again. I invited her in and she asked if she could use my Instagram to get in touch with a friend, which she did but to no avail. I am very nervous about anyone using my computer. She called her mother on my phone, who got in touch with her friend who lives not far away to bring her spare keys. Forty minutes later of making small talk with a young Australian born person of Asian heritage who is upcoming high flyer at Ernest Young did me in. 

I did not feel like a full meal and while the daughter was still here, Phyllis came out to prepare my dinner. He made me scrambled eggs on toast, perfect, and took over the chat with neighbour, they being of a similar age.

The dampness camera and the moisture probe showed my apartment had dried out, so the nine fans and two dehumidifiers were removed and I have so much space, and I won't he kicking furniture that's sitting in the wrong place. I could get away without repainting anything but given the building's insurance will pay, I will get it done, after a bit of luxury of having no tradespeople visiting. 

Someone mentioned my new lounge chairs, and the damage was repaired with a very satisfactory job.

They are nothing special, just black leather but I am excited by what they can do, sadly though not pouring a drink and serving it to me.

Not quite completely flat, but very comfortable. I haven't fallen asleep on it yet at night time and woken up at 2.30am, but give it time.

With leading Monday Mural poster Sami, here is mine this week. Is there a story here?

Over Grand Prix weekend, Newport Railway Workshops held its annual open day, and it was grand event with thousands attending over three days. 

I had warned my tram and train fan friend visiting from Queensland that my stamina was limited, and he confessed his was too. We met up at Flinders Street Station to travel to Newport Station, where we could catch a shuttle bus running for the event. The service was frequent and the first bus that arrived, while dated, was not to our taste. We wanted an older bus. 

Helpful volunteers advised us that it would be the next bus to arrive, and it was, and we clambered aboard. The bus is what is known as a Leyland Tiger, built in England between the end of WWII and 1968. Australia imported the engine, drive train and chassis, then the body, seats and accessories were added here. 

Amazingly, the ride seemed smoother and nothing rattled, unlike what happens with our modern city buses. Obviously it was very well maintained. One of the guides suggested a donation to the driver who volunteered his and his bus's time and effort for the three days. I wanted to, but I no longer carry cash.

There were food vans and it was all so well organised. While we didn't aim to see anything in particular, we enjoyed what we saw, even though aside from a couple of steam trains running in unison, we missed everything else that moved, actually moving. 

Note how hard the driver is working the almost horizontal steering wheel to turn corners.

Travelling on the Tiger.

When I say this doesn't look so old, it probably is. They could still be in use for moving train carriages around in yards.

Another Tiger.

I think this is a rail car, maybe called a Walker Rail Motor. It is a small two carriage train used on very quiet train routes. The seats were super comfortable. Why have we gone backwards with train seat comfort?

Melbourne's standard suburban electric trains, know as Taits, or more commonly, red rattlers.

The lighting made it difficult to photograph this old steam train. 

The train sheds were rather fancy.

While some of the rail yards are used for historical purposes, Newport Workshops is also a very large train storage and maintenance facility.